AllFreeNovel
Share Us
When he heard a clock in the dining room give three chimes, he woke Melina, took her by the hand and led her to her bed.
He kissed her forehead.
After he left the room, he moved to his own chamber.
He’d just kissed a woman’s forehead. He didn’t understand himself. But he did understand the simmering, pulsing need throughout his body. His temporary sainthood was leaving him. He was barely hanging on to his vow of celibacy.
In his chamber, he poured water into the washbowl and used both hands to dip his face into it. He dried, wishing he could shake his body like a wet dog and quiver away his desire for Melina.
His hands stopped on the flannel, resting. He could think of better ways to ease himself of his want for the dark beauty, and all involved her softness.
He could show her so much, but then, he could end up with another man laying claim to his child. The spectre of Stephanos rose up, and tore at Warrington. He could not let Melina go back to Melos with his child inside her and he could not let a woman close enough to destroy him again.
* * *
In the morning, Broomer woke Warrington and barely gave him time to get his eyes open before the servant said, ‘My sis brought the first dress and I’m asking her to stay until you take a look ’fore she leaves. I’m thinking you might want her to keep the garment.’
War raised a brow and left his bed.
‘It’s the colour of mud or boot scrapings,’ Broomer continued. ‘I asked my sister what she was thinking. She reminded me of you asking for something governess-like... She’s in a fierce mood now.’ Broomer shrugged. ‘They’re dressing Melina because my sister did bring some of those underneath trappings and you know how those take an age for a woman to knot up.’
* * *
When War saw the garment on Melina, he understood Broomer’s statement. The gown was suitable for a stern governess, but it didn’t hide her enough.
He turned to Broomer’s sister, a woman close to Warrington’s own height. Her eyes had the same friendliness of her brother’s, but the dark blue dress she wore, and the long line of her neck, gave her a gently bred appearance—the exact opposite of her sibling.
‘A pleasant gown,’ Warrington stated. Those were the best words he could say about it.
‘We will need a chaperon.’ He spoke to the seamstress. ‘To protect Melina’s reputation.’ Broomer’s face jerked around. Obviously he’d noticed Melina was living in the house with no chaperonage. Mrs Fountain and Broomer were not talebearers, though. And for the day servants, they would not make note of a woman staying with him, thinking her a mistress of no consequence.
But to be in public with Melina was another thing. She would be noticed and that should have the appearance of propriety.
‘I could certainly go about with you. If that’s what you wish.’ The sister looked taken aback, but agreeable.
He nodded. ‘But some of the conversations Melina and I will have with other people—you’ll need to make yourself scarce for those moments. I’ll nod to you and then you can absent yourself for a bit.’
‘Whatever is needed.’ Her chin went up, sending out a message of complete agreement and perfect servitude. A woman who considered it a show of her loyalty to help accomplish a task and would consider it no challenge at all to do Warrington’s bidding.
* * *
Warrington first had to give his report to the Foreign Office and then he took Melina to Somerset House. He stood in the centre of the room, looking up at the paintings lining the walls. Above eye level, he could see about three more rows of large paintings, under the windows at ceiling height. The paintings, all ornately framed, weren’t arranged in a neat line, but more like a pleasing array of mismatched sizes of tiles covering a wall.
This wasn’t the annual display of Somerset House, but he’d arranged for a meeting with the man who’d forwarded Melina’s letters to her father.
He started at one side of the room and checked each painting, looking for Cherroll’s name. Melina started at the other. Broomer’s sister stood close to Melina and he realised, based on the women’s dress, an onlooker might think Melina the chaperon.
After a few minutes, Melina called him over, pointing to a painting. The chaperon walked discreetly to other artwork.
‘My father did this one,’ she said.
At that moment, a man, with a precise cravat and a pace just as measured, walked up to them. Warrington turned. ‘Mr Bridewater?’
The man nodded. ‘Yes. I received your message. Please follow me.’
